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Living on the west-side wasn't easy. The switch from the constant noise of gunshots, yelling and other, most likely illegal activities was harsh compared to the west sides, at most, occasional drunk person stumbling their way back home after a night of drinking 'organic', or 'locally produced' cocktails. It was strangely eerie at times, the strong beams from the moon flooding their apartment with a bright light, even at the latest hours, paired with the fact that there was nobody slamming the door as they entered home at god-knows what hour in the morning. Perhaps this is why Ian wasn't one bit worried at first when Mickey hadn't came home when said he would.
He had left the building in the early hours of the evening, stating, 'It's too damn quiet in here', then, 'I need a fuckin' walk, man.' And then, he left, not forgetting to remind their neighbours who they were living next to by slamming the door on his way out. This, was not unusual to Ian. He was used to his husband's sudden bouts of annoyance for the west-side, followed by him swiftly exiting their residence. However, what was unusual, was the fact that Mickey had not returned. And it's not as if he was 30 minutes or so late, that would be the most normal thing to happen- Mickey was terrible with timings.
It was 4:56am. The bars near them all closed at 3am, stupid, of course, but it was the west side. That was usually as late as Mickey was out as of recent months. Maybe 4am at a push. But nearing 5am? When the sun was threatening to rise at any moment? That was weird.
If this had been 5 years ago, Ian would never have even thought about batting an eye at the fact that Mickey wasn't back. He was probably out doing whatever Mickey thing he thought up whilst slightly high or drunk. But they had started a routine now. They weren't teenagers anymore, they were adults. With adult responsibilities. Like their jobs, what to cook for dinner, and oh, hm, not leaving your husband worrying at 5 o'clock in the morning. He would have simply gone to bed assuming Mickey would shove him over at some point during his sleep to join him. But at this point, Ian was starting to get worried. He sat in their living room, struggling to fight sleep, yet still anxiously awaiting his partners return.
Thankfully, his worrying was short lived. Not so thankfully, when Mickey stumbled through their apartment door, he was not drunk or high like Ian had assumed he would be. He was covered in blood. His or someone else's, Ian could not tell.
"What the actual fuck Mickey?!" Ian whisper yelled, in a most likely futile attempt at not waking their neighbours, who unlike Mickey, Ian had grown to quite like. Mickey had kept a boastful streak of not fighting anyone, (off the job, of course), in over 6 months. So it was safe to say Ian was pissed when he saw his husband walk in with a black eye blossoming, a split lip and bloodied knuckles.
"I can explain this, I swear. I fell?" Mickey said in the most uncertain tone Ian had ever heard and an awkward half-smile, half, almost fearful, look. All he could manage to do without adding to Mickey's injuries by also punching him was shake his head disapprovingly with furrowed brows, then drag him by the collar into their bathroom and setting him down on their toilet.
Ian's EMT days actually helped significantly in his day to day life. There was always someone who needed some form of medical attention. Having such a large amount of siblings definitely didn't help with this; nor did Mickey's old fighting tendencies. It was also this past occupation that meant that, luckily for Mickey, he always kept a fully stocked first aid kit in their medicine cabinet.
"Now, tell me what actually happened before I break your nose too." Ian said, not a hint of sarcasm in his voice. Mickey shivered slightly. "In my defence, I didn't fuckin' start it, okay? I just happened to find a wallet on the floor with no one nearby and... you know... take it. Then some dick came outta nowhere and started beating me. What was I meant to do? Stand there like a pussy? Hell no."
Ian listened to Mickey rant on about how he "Definitely won." However, when he took off the blood soaked shirt that his idiotic husband wore, the beginnings of purple bruises on his ribs said otherwise.
Despite being annoyed at the fact that Mickey not only got into a fight, but got into a fight over a wallet he stole- no- tried stealing, Ian still looked at his wounds with a sympathetic gaze.
He threw the shirt to the side, taking a mental note to put it in the wash basket later, and began wiping away the slightly dried blood from Mickey's chin, holding his head still to stop him from jolting away suddenly.
"Did you really have to take the wallet. I mean couldn't you just have left it? Or put it to the side for the actual owner to find?" Ian sighed.
"Well you might've done that but unlike you, I'm not a pussy-" Ian cut him off by pressing harder against his lip while cleaning it and shot Mickey a disapproving glare. Mickey, of course, pulled away, mumbling "Okay jeez, sorry, asshole.." with a snarl on his face.
"All I'm saying is it would've been easier if you had just left it, or, maybe, come home when you said you would?" Ian stepped back while crossing his arms. He wasn't really mad, of course. This is better then the time Mickey got shot in the ass while robbing an old lady's house. Because God knows he wasn't going to be the one to pull a bullet out of Mickey.
Mickey looked up at him with an apologetic, yet sad face, similar to that of a sad dog. "I'm sorry, okay? I wasn't thinking, and it was there, ya know? I shouldn't have been so fuckin' careless." Victory. Mickey had caved. Ian won. Like always.
With a smirk, he pulled Mickey up by the wrist and stared him in the eyes. "At least you're alive. But do this again without any warning and trust me, you won't be. Okay?" With a gulp in return from his husband, Ian gave him a quick kiss before leaving Mickey in the bathroom looking like his tail was between his legs.
"That was kinda hot." Was all Mickey could splutter out to himself.